


Let me occupy your mind, like you do mine

by GingerHoran



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Paris - Freeform, Romance, little bit of french
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:03:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerHoran/pseuds/GingerHoran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why Paris Zayn?" he asks with scrunched eyes which are questioning and deep, but Zayn doesn’t actually have an answer it’s simply an impulsive choice and he has always found himself studying aspects of French artists and using them as examples in his projects, maybe it’s some sort of twisted fate he wonders.</p><p>“I don’t know.” He shrugs, and Harry bounds over to him with a crackling smile and bright eyes, before jumping down beside him with a huff.</p><p>“Because it’s the city of Love,” he sings, elongating the word. And only Harry would ever say that.</p><p>Zayn's a student looking for inspiration in the world, whilst Niall's just a little French boy he happens to stumble across.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Dedicated to WhoisAlaska
> 
> Hiya Amy, hope you like the first chapter of my newest project, dedicated to you babe because your writing gave me the confidence to write myself. And as a thank you for your amazing Ziall Family Snapshots, I love them x 
> 
> Title taken from Hearts a mess by Gotye

Zayn thinks he knows what it’s like to live in a city, to know its culture and to get to the very core of its pulsing existence and passion, but he doesn’t really. New York is all skyscrapers, having to crane your neck to look at the sheer height of a glass structure and its insomniac lifestyle; nevertheless there’s no philosophy or history and everything is unlimitedly dull and Zayn feels suffocated like there’s no escape. The air is thick and humid, and Zayn almost regrets the bulky leather jacket he slipped on over his shirt that morning but the mere thought of removing it is out of the question, so he keeps it on without inquiring his own conscience because, he thinks, it could quite possibly rain.

It’s all bright colours, and blocks and ultimately gaudy but he lingers beside the paintings as he’s always dreamed of visiting the Guggenheim, but can’t help but feel a little disappointed by it all, his leather notebook is sticky in his hands, and he damns _Alberto Giacometti_ amongst the other artists, because it makes no sense. There’s no meaning that he can discover, and the buzz of excitement that slowly built up as he walked from his hotel room to the gallery has diminished, because there’s no inspiration and no tale of woe, he’s bored.

Facing the wide expanse of traffic down below, the hurrying people with morbid looks holding umbrellas to shield from the rain, he pulls out his mobile phone and almost laughs contemptuously as he finds more inspiration in his lock screen, the photo brightening his mood; it’s almost as if they are all attached to one another in one mess of awkward lanky limbs as they spread out across the suede brown sofa entangled between fluffy blankets and stomachs full of cheap beer and insalubrious foods. 

“Yo, my man!” Harry crows unabashedly loud through the phone and Zayn huffs out a sigh in agreement, because he misses home, and the three imbeciles he shares a disgustingly messy studio with.

Harry yaps on and on about the bakery he’s been working at over the summer, and how Liam thinks he found love with a tanned legged dancing beauty, before he was left heartbroken in the rain with a bunch of wilting purple roses he wouldn’t admit he stole from the racks outside the florist in a rush to meet the girl- who he now admits never existed- and make a good impression.

 Louis who is normally a self-absorbed, slightly obnoxious fuck was there to wipe away the tears that never fell and the heartbreak that didn’t need healing, it’s always the same with Liam and his soft, mushy heart and his gentle demeanour because he falls too easily into the trap of beauty, and once he is thrown from the once inescapable snare he refuses to show any symptoms of heartache and deception. Instead he spends almost all of his time outside, jogging around the green planes of Hyde Park with Harry’s music (scarily demonic songs by Avenged Sevenfold) blasting almost deafeningly through his ears.

Zayn laughs as though it’s easy, as though he isn’t aching to be back home in those worn cotton sheets over his small slept through in bed, away from the city that never sleeps and it’s too tall skyscrapers that make your neck ache. Harry sighs, because as cryptic and unusual as Zayn can be, he’s easy to define as a character if you know him well enough, and his laugh for one is easy to tell as forged.

“Zayn,” Harry starts with a voice that’s drawling and familiar and curls up into Zayn’s stomach since he already knows what he is going to say. “Just come home you idiot, Louis’ driving everyone up the wall and Liam, fuck Liam is always cooking all the time, and bro, the guy cannot make a marinara sauce to save his sorry ass” he complains childishly and Zayn laughs genuinely, truthfully for the past 3 weeks.

Of course he agrees.

=

Louis pants, choking through his laughter as he struggles to get air into his lungs which are currently heaving with exhaustion, his hands balanced against his bony knees and his spine arched over. Harry’s trying to keep in the chuckles that threaten to rip through his throat any second but his body shakes uncontrollably and he ends up in a similar position as Louis, whilst Liam is stony and unamused flanking his left side, watching the two boys roll on the floor with hilarity like a disapproving mother.

“Surprise!” Louis shouts once he’s straightened up, but it comes out rather high almost as if it’s a question and he expects Zayn to answer, but Zayn still looks utterly bored, it’s not that his best friends covering their entire apartment in pink tinsel is not funny, he’s still looking for that glorious inscription like Madame Bovary; or a simply breathtaking gothic painting by Paul Delaroche, it’s just an empty abyss waiting to be occupied.

 Maybe London’s not the place.

=

The pasta is overcooked and falling apart into sticky shreds among the gluttonously thick and rather unappetising tomato sauce, and Zayn just wants to smash the plate over Liam’s head, but he knows that’ll be completely out of character, but he need to get the message across because the guy’s culinary skills are as satisfying as Harry successfully telling a funny story.

“Dude, this is disgusting.” Louis starts with a scrunched up face, and Zayn rolls his eyes as if he already sees where this is heading, and he does. Harry always seems to side with Louis – and in all fairness Zayn can see why Liam always ends up in tears, bombarding himself in his bedroom but eventually retreating around 2 hours later for a cuddle, which can totally never be seen as an overreaction.

After these events take place, alongside the rushed order of several cheese pizza’s from the old pizzeria in the city centre, Louis only orders from their because he fancies the girl who delivers the food, but the boys never actually complain, Zayn decides to tell his friends his plans for the rest of the summer.

“Paris.” Harry shouts with a mouthful of pizza, he then looks over at Louis and mouths the words _Paris_ with raised eyebrows as if to prove a point, Louis simply shrugs taking another bite of pizza and moaning in delight as if it is the most glorious thing he has ever eaten whilst Liam’s smiling stupidly at Zayn the only one seemingly excited about his revelation

“ Seulement Liam ne peut venir à Paris avec moi, le reste d'entre vous sont des idiots." he says with a smirk knowing full well that the other boys don't know a chicken shit about what he just muttered, other than it’s something to do with Liam, and it's maybe a little bit of an advantage that he did take a French minor in his first year of university and is now moving onto Art History, because he can use both to his complete advantage.

"What the fuck!" Louis is the first to speak his voice dropping a few octaves in utter confusion, but Zayn laughs slapping his thighs and falling back with a breath against the sofa, Harry smiles rather droopingly like he does whenever they share a spliff and get high on the balcony whilst Liam is back to being the disapproving mother goose.

"Why Paris Zayn?" he asks with scrunched eyes which are questioning and deep, but Zayn doesn’t actually have an answer it’s simply an impulsive choice and he has always found himself studying aspects of French artists and using them as examples in his projects, maybe it’s some sort of twisted fate he wonders.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs, and Harry bounds over to him with a crackling smile and bright eyes, before jumping down beside him with a huff.

“Because it’s the city of Love,” he sings, elongating the word. And only Harry would ever say that.

“Fine, I don’t mind being dragged to Paris, want to visit the Comédie Française anyways, oh and buy one of those camp man purses,” he says with a sigh as if he’s already imagining himself ambling around Champs Elysees with his Gucci sunglasses, orange oxford jumper and skinny black jeans.

“Honestly Lou, that’s all you bloody think about.” Harry crows loudly from where he has situated himself on Liam’s lap, it’s a sign of apology really, and Zayn can almost feel the victory floating through the air.

_I’m going to bloody Paris._

_=_

Zayn drenched right through, his white t-shirt translucent from the water and his tattoos visible, but his grins never been any wider, he doesn’t feel claustrophobic here, he feels free and open and all the amazing architecture just hums through his body, he loves the feeling of being a tourist.

Two notebooks have already been filled to the brim with rough sketches, random notes and observations of his favourite pieces in the Louvre, especially _the tree of crows by Caspar David Friedrich,_ and Zayn knows it sounds slightly trivial but he really can relate to the painting and its pessimistic feel, the way oak tree is bizarrely twisted and the crows and ravens flying in the background essence a tone of death to the dark oil painting.

As he walks back through the bustling city, the air clearer after a brief flashing of rain, he skips jovially into a cobbled backstreet to avoid any pedestrian traffic and stumbles across the most amazing scent, the sudden hunger flashing over him in a second, he’s been living of crepes for the past three days since that’s all Harry wishes to make, whilst Louis keeps on buying cheap bottles of Château de Migraine, at only a few euros a bottle from a small French market he’s become rather infatuated with. To be perfectly honest Liam’s the only one who’s been making decent progress from their trip, with Photography as his degree he’s been preparing a piece for his dissertation, and is constantly visiting all the major attractions like The Arc De Triomphe and recently the Montparnasse Tower. 

 

There’s a little bakery, quaint and delicate and Zayn smiles in it all, it has this cute little aura and traditional French provinciality about it all, and Zayn’s possibly a little in love with the sight of it, small glass windows framed with peeling oak frames and little pastries delicately placed through the window, it’s probably only a few meters wide, but the owners have obviously made the most out of the small space.

Zayn pushes through the painted black door, the glass clearly swirled in the gold lettering _‘_ _Petit_ _coin de paradis’_ _,_ a tinkling of  a bell is heard once the door opens and Zayn is hit with the smell of freshly baked goods out of the oven, his stomach growls loudly and he blushes.

There is a small blond boy sat on a leather stool, his elbows resting on the glass shelf and his eyes downwards as he gleefully stares at all the little iced cakes, baked breads, it was cutely fascinating watching him hum a song Zayn didn’t recognize whilst tilting his head every few seconds as if to explore a new angle in which the sweets would look differently.

Zayn cleared his throat with a smile, and watched as the boy’s head shot up quickly and blue eyes shone brightly. “Salut, quel est ton nom? Je m'appelle Niall” he probed with a wide childlike grin, the loud voice echoed around the little shop, and before Zayn could reply a small women dressed in flowery patterned dress, and a maroon apron dusted with flour appeared.

 “Niall! Se comportent, et permettez-moi de parler avec les clients,” she scolded but her face was light with something only Zayn could translate as humor, shaking her head she turned to Zayn and smiled lightly brushing of her apron with a flick of her hands, and asking him what he wanted.

Even when mouthwatering iced beignets, and several Glacé petit fours were being placed into brown paper bags, Zayn couldn’t help but gaze at the little boy who looked a mere 14, as he pressed his face up against the glass and traced little patterns with his fingers with the condensation the hot air created on the cool glass.

A timer beeped in the background, and the little woman pressed the bag into Zayn’s fingers and pressed a chaste kiss to Niall’s forehead before bustling into the other room. Although it was now Zayn’s que to leave the little bakery, that had possibly become a major attraction of Paris in his eyes, stood slightly awkwardly in the shop, not wanting to leave without answering the boys question because if there was one thing he disliked it was rudeness.

“Mon nom est Zayn.” He muttered, and the boy pursed his lips into the glass looking straight at him with wide blue eyes like headlights, the moment was ruined by a bursting laughter from the other side of the room, which made Niall giggle and Zayn shoot around bewilderedly.

“Your French is not bad mate, to bad your accent gives you away.” It was a relatively small girl though not nearly as small as the boy he learnt was called Niall, who was squashed into the junction between two shelves a worn book between her fingers, she spoke with a clean cut London accent her lips pursed slightly and Niall cocked his head confusedly between the two of them. If Zayn were to guess by the similarity in looks, she was definitely related to Niall.

“Well, erm- I guess so?” he responded, although it came out as more of a question than anything, the girl raised her eyebrows, before chuckling something in French that Zayn only caught slight wind of, before Niall erupted into cute little giggles which he unsuccessfully tried to cover up with his palm.

Zayn left feeling not so satisfied, the girl- who Zayn learnt was called Perrie, had moved to France with her father when she was younger, she seemed like a happy-go-lucky sort of girl, and her literary skills were what mostly riveted Zayn, that worn book in her hands soon revealed to be _The count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas_ which Zayn found to be an extremely captivating read whilst in high school.

But was confused Zayn the most, was that when he tried to ask any fairly innocent questions about Niall, like why he didn’t speak English and where he was born, Perrie seemed stiffen and toss a wary glance towards her little brother (to which Zayn pretended to be shocked when he found out, and muttered a ‘Perrie’s cheeky little brother-Effronté petit frère de Perrie’ to the blond boy, who laughed shyly), currently licking at a creamy pastry that had been set on the counter by his mother who had simply ignored Zayn’s presence.

Shrugging off the encounter- which he knew he would dwell on later that night, when he bustled out onto the balcony wearing Harry’s plaid pajama bottoms to have a cigarette, and compare the way Paris’ light was much softer than New York, and how it wasn’t loud and bustling but hummed with life and love, and Paris.

He entered the small rented apartment he was sharing with the other boys, it had those dirty ceilings, large spinning fans, French glass doors that opened up onto a small balcony and lacy curtains which reminded Zayn of those photos of those monochrome Audrey Hepburn that Liam kept in his wallet, as a dote to why he loved photography and all it shadows and film. 

Harry and Louis were attached on the couch all limbs flailing wildly, giggling profusely at the french television, Zayn had thought it rather childish that although they were staying here for over a month until their first term, but only words they had bothered to learn were  ‘Baiser’ and ‘merde’, highly inappropriate if Zayn was to actually have an opinion.

Helping themselves to the pastries in the brown paper bag, Zayn flung himself with a not so subtle groan onto the couch; today had been exhausting but successful, after bombarding himself through the Louvre he stayed clear from the Mona Lisa in all its glory, instead seeking out those less notorious masterpieces, after several sketches of _Berthe Morisot_ and _Edgar Degas,_ he was washed over with accomplishment, and wrestled once again through the crowds into the open air space of Paris.

“Who’s the Parisian that’s taken up all that jittery, artistic bullshit out of you, and turned you into a normal male sloth, like me and Haz. Hm?” Louis confronted, his face filled with a custardy substance, as he ignored the sharp elbow jab to the side from Harry after his ‘offensive’ comment.

Zayn removed his arm from his eyes and frowned over at the Doncaster lad, before shrugging his shoulder nonchalantly and deciding that he didn’t kiss and tell, although nothing had actually happened that afternoon, except stumbling across a bakery in a backstreet two miles from his apartment which the thought of revisiting wouldn’t look too shabby.

Although being the selfish, manic and insufferable person he could be, Louis was probably Zayn’s closest friend, and even though he is seemingly attached to that curly haired bundle called Harry, they’ve known each other since girls had cooties, and bedtime was evil. They’re like magnets, all four of them, inseparable to the extent where they usually spend Christmas morning skyping each other, and there’s more chance of them forgetting a sibling’s birthday than one of theirs.

Dinner is not full of its usual mishaps, Liam shows off his photographs for which Zayn almost feel blessed that one of them has an artistic side and pulls the boy into a crushing hug, Harry rustles up some cheese and bread platter thanking the small café across the boulevard because none of them have starved yet, whilst Louis falls asleep pretty quickly amongst the already lazy, sleep-warm bundle of limbs clashing on the sofa.

 

That usual nicotine burn hits Zayn at approximately 1:34am, and he sleepily pulls himself from out of Liam’s grasp, who’s managed to tangle his feet with Harry’s hair, lay his head on Louis’ chest and wrap his arms in a choking hold around Zayn’s waist. Zayn, who chuckles softly at the scene, squeezes himself from the bundle, and peels of his uncomfortable jeans before pulling out a crumpled packet of French cigarettes he wasn’t so happy about buying.

Smoke filters expertly into his lungs as he hollows his cheeks and sucks onto the fag, it relaxes his stiff limbs and he already feels heavy and relaxed, and goddamn it do times like this make his forget the nagging he receives from his mother about that ‘ _disgusting, foul habit’._

Amongst all the thoughts and feelings as he looks out across the city, the Eiffel tower like a halo pointing up into the sky, the air cool as it swirls around him raising little goosebumps across his bare arms, that one sentence, that one thing just stays in his head.

_Je m'appelle Niall._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Infatuation was probably the word, because if Zayn thought too deep into this he’d only confuse himself, and that wasn’t the best thing to do in situations such as this. Standing outside of bakery and taking pictures of a young boy with your best friend’s camera wasn’t exactly the norm for boys Zayn’s age, but he was an artist and he’d found something that had instantly attracted him, almost like a magnet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May be some irregular updates, but hope you enjoy the second chapter.  
> Love you.  
> Again this goes to WhoisAlaska x

“You know, you know it’s pretty funny, but I want to be a bird. I want feathers…” Louis trailed off into giggles, bringing the spliff up to his lips and taking a long hard puff before exhaling and passing it onto Harry who was lay next to him, face dazed and languid.

Harry had been relatively silent throughout the whole trip, occasionally bursting forward with uncontained laughter but the other two didn’t take any particular notice as they were just as high and lost into their own colourful, dangerous, crazy minds as he was.

Suddenly Liam sat up, his lips curved down scarily and his eyes widening in fear, it wasn’t very usual for Liam to share the monthly stash that his friends used to buy from some crazy blond dude that Louis knew from his high school years, he’d become illogical relatively quickly.

Liam pointed to the large wooden door beneath the stairs that the boys had previously been excited about thinking that it may have been filled with aged French champagne, or maybe Napoleons mummified body surrounded by gold coins, instead it was filled with folded brown paper bags and dust bunnies.

“He’s there,” he choked out, alerting Zayn who had only recently lighted his first cigarette, not really being in the mood to be stoned. Zayn laughed lightly, knowing the boys crazy shenanigans were to start any second, so he nodded if only to probe the boy to carry on what he was saying, he always found it funny especially to tease the boys later on about it.

“I saw him last night, he’s looking for me, wants to take me to the dark side. But I said no,” he whispered with a dramatic pause, standing to his feet dizzyingly fast, and gesturing out with wide arms whilst Zayn stifled his chuckles and Louis watched with interest dazed blue eyes as if Liam was making an important declaration.

“I said no! I will not join you in the dark side Darth Vader. Never!” he shouted with an essence of proud his arms falling to his sides, Zayn burst open into stomach curdling laughter, tears spouting from his eyes, whilst Harry looked on up at Liam his green eyes absolutely petrified.

After Zayn stopped laughing, all he heard for the next 30 minutes was.

“It’s true, oh my god Li, it’s true. Go away Voldertmort, I fucking hate you Voldermort.”

Maybe then did Zayn regret buying the weed off of a French guy, who sold it in small brown paper bag, beside his luxury cheese collection.

=

Liam gazed out of the window, the rain was sliding down the window and he thought about how wonderful it would look as one of those grainy monochrome picture especially with the Eiffel tower in the background, but he sighed thinking about how Zayn had borrowed his camera and ran out of the door after he flung on Harry’s Burberry raincoat.

Louis had finally retreated from the slightly claustrophobic apartment, saying that he’d wanted to buy some nougat for his sisters and possibly head round the Champs-Élysées for that Pierre Hardy tote he’d always wanted, but couldn’t really afford.

On the other hand Harry had decided for once to stay in, and was determined to read one of Zayn’s books that were on a bookshelf beside the broken fireplace which Zayn tried to light several times when they first arrived, but it didn’t even splutter. Liam sighed longingly, he knew he was being ridiculously childish about the whole thing even though it was his favourite camera, and Zayn did say whatever he was doing would help with his project so it wasn't all for nothing.

But, the thing is, none of the boys knew what exactly Zayn thought was important enough to take photographs off, because for as long as he’d known the other 3 boys he had always introduced himself as a sketcher.

Having done his first portfolio based solely on the Disney works by Albert Hurter, and his famous prototypes sketches, it was his preferred method of art work and explanation of his favourite pieces, he’d sketch them out with a few of his own slight interpretation’s before adding annotations about the artist’s possible inspiration and technical skill.

Shrugging, and sliding his hands down the window rather moodily, Liam decided to sort his life out and go and buy some decent food for tonight, he’d missed those cold refreshing coronas, and fatty burgers they ate at home, he was out in search for some calorific deliciousness.

=

Zayn held the black contraption between his palmy hands, he really didn’t understand why he was sweating, or why he had been spying on Niall and his mother in their little bakery all morning, snapping slightly angular shots of the boys’ crooked smile, azure blue eyes and clumsy fingers as he kneaded sticky dough; so it was a little strange but Zayn had his subconscious reasons.

Hiding back into that little dark alcove he’d hidden into, it was slightly opposite the little bakery with the quiet buzz of tourists on the left where the main streets were and a little vintage jewellery shop next door, it was perfect as it had a right angle to the window facing Zayn, where Niall was in straight view for a stunning photo, the lighting perfect from the hazy sun in the sky.

Infatuation was probably the word, because if Zayn thought too deep into this he’d only confuse himself, and that wasn’t the best thing to do in situations such as this. Standing outside of bakery and taking pictures of a young boy with your best friend’s camera wasn’t exactly the norm for boys Zayn’s age, but he was an artist and he’d found something that had instantly attracted him, almost like a magnet.

Snapping  a few more grainy shots with the camera, he resigned back against the wall with a sigh running his fingers through his hair, the pictures were good, very good and Zayn smiled almost selfishly at the sight. The lighting had picked up hints of silver, and that bright ring of cerulean around the pupil when he’d zoomed in, his hair had these fine roots of dark chocolate brown beneath golden blond and it had given Zayn so many ideas, so many thoughts he was giddy.

Popping his head out of the alcove with a smile, he observed the young boy for a few more seconds; his mother had seemingly disappeared into the back with another batch of bread to bake and Zayn thought about how the boy didn’t look bored or uninterested, he stared with awe out of the window at the bricked building across from him, his bright eyes flickering every few minutes around himself as if he couldn’t quite be busy with that one thing.

 And it almost reminded Zayn of himself; he never got jaded with anything but he looked around him for more, it was more that he was easily distracted and excitable more than anything else, it really was fascinating than studying an artist or a famous painting in a gallery, this was God’s own creation, his work dappled from his paintbrush and placed onto the earth.

Zayn finally dragged himself from outside the bakery, and through the bustling city centre, passing those little outdoor cafes the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air and almost distracting Zayn, but without giving in to that gnawing feeling in his stomach he found he was already buzzing from energy from the shots on the little black box hanging from his neck and not a steaming cup of black coffee, no sugar.

Finding a pharmacy, he passed chatting tourists and hurried European teenagers with grinning smiles and loud cackles as they wrestled beside the magazines, shaking his head with memories of him and the other roommates as troublesome young teens fresh in college, he headed to the back of the drugstore where there were photograph printing machines.

After getting fresh copies, both monochrome and colour, he tucked the still warm snapshots into his shoulder bag and deleting the memory from the camera, because as regretful as he felt afterwards, Liam would ask questions and it’s probably the first time he’s kept a secret but he wasn’t exactly unhappy with the idea of keeping the French boy a secret, his little project.

=

Louis sighed heavily, heaving the bags into the rusty, damp smelling elevator he cursed Zayn for picking the apartment, he didn’t have a clue why it was so French with its old fashioned wallpaper, dusty oak flooring and lacy curtains decked onto the balcony with maybe Louis was a little appreciative off.

He could smell sizzling meat as he slung the carrier bags over his shoulder, although he would never admit to going overboard with the brimming bag of candy, and French couture, he may have spent a little over 700 euros; which was possibly all his savings but the rent for the studio had already been paid so he shrugged of the receipts and credit card bill he’d receive when he returned to London.

The apartment was smoky, and Louis choked, flinging the heavy bags to the floor and kicking his jacket to the side, Liam was shimmying his hips along to some rock band tossing fried onions in a pan whilst Zayn was leaning against the counter smoking a cigarette and flicking ash and laughter across the kitchen, but Louis didn’t even blink as he crossed the room, grabbing a beer and hurling himself onto the couch next to Harry who was staring cross eyed into ‘Anna Karenina’.

Cradling the half-drunk beer into his chest, he leant over Harry and flicking his ear along to the Jet song playing from the iPod dock, causing Harry to shrivel his nose in disapproval and sink deeper into cushions, but Louis only carried on poking his ears before Harry frowned deeply, and shot up from the sofa with a shout.

“Louis, stop it, you little shit!” he shouted, his emerald eyes gleaming with stoniness, but it was short-lived as Zayn spluttered, and Liam ball-room danced to the Godfather theme tuned, hands reaching out to grab Harry’s hips who whined at the gesture but let himself be manhandled around the room in little circles.

“Liam, I was reading about a Moscow aristocrat, it was interesting and you bloody ruined it,” he whined childishly, but Liam only pouted and turned to Zayn with his arms outstretched to carry on the rest of the ill-footed dance.

Harry then turned to Louis with a glare. “And you,” he shouted. “You kept on poking me!” he chastised, but Louis only burst into laughter, sloshing the beer slightly as he slammed it onto the wooden table and gripping Harry’s hands to bring him into the finale of the song, twisting him around and leaning his down.

“Sorry my little Hazzabear.” He choked out into the boys’ ear, overcome with hilarity, as all four boys twirled about the room; soon bad footing and purposeful falling caused them to end up in a pile on the floor, with heaving chests and twisted ankles.

“Shit! The food.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn rushes home with a hysterical laugh, slipping through the apartment lithely and hastening past a shouting Harry, diving beneath his pillow to grab those precious close ups of Niall’s perfect doe eyes and comparing his black and white sketches of the cherubs, his smile only getting wider.
> 
> It’s as if his whole artistically mental existence has been leading up to moment where he can find his muse, to perfect their appearance through his art and have them up in his heart and up in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of pig latin...  
> Enjoy my lovelies x

Zayn knows that whatever is going on, whatever this rapture is? It’ll eventually fade although his subconscious is screaming want, he doesn’t know why he feels a pulsing deep in his chest when he thinks about it, or why whenever he sees that exact shade of blue in his lazy ambles through the city he wants to escape, escape back to that little alcove where he had a window into Niall’s world.

Thinking back to when he was Niall’s age, an impressionable, manipulated 15 year old, it’s hard to comprehend the fact that Niall is spending all his summer helping his mother in that little patisserie and not escaping down alleyways with a stolen cigarette and a bunch of well accumulated friends; or sneaking out to haphazard house parties at midnight and returning with bruised lips and alcohol induced headaches.

Normal teenage years don’t consist of smiling politeness and baking breads, they’re filled with chaotic running, pumping heartbeats and forgotten memories and for some reason Niall looks to happy, and altogether too homely for it to be a forced detention; instead he looks willing and eager and childish and altogether Zayn loves the innocence.

But he wants to destroy it, take the little French boy on an adventure around the beautiful city while splattering his white heart with blues and blacks and reds, and give him memories and take them away all at once. Teach him the ways of life; show him the art that makes his head spin and the music that causes convulsions in his brain.

He wants to ruin the innocence in his eyes.

However at the same time he doesn’t, he wants to test the boundaries, take it slow like sketching a portrait, you analyse their features: the slope of a nose, the chapped arch of the upper lip, the way the fan of eyelashes shadow the under eyes delicately and the cheekbones shaping the face through the skin. He wants to start the relationship, whatever he wants it to be, off like his artwork, slow building talent and time reaching to perfection.

Confusion fuses over his face as he puffs the third cigarette, it’s a bad habit and he always seems to smoke more when he’s contemplating a serious issue but he’s just a boy and its baffling, but the overlook at nightly Paris makes that extra few a little more worthwhile, the light is soft and touching the streets delicately sound with clattering of china and mute chatter. The restaurants are surrounding the tower, basking beneath her glory, and Zayn sees the way everything seems to intuitively surround her beauty and she’s a landmark so it makes sense, but she’s almost the life, the deity, the burn of the city.

“Zayn, you’ve been awfully distant later, are you okay?”

And Zayn laughs contemptuously, almost bitterly instantly regretting the tone of his voice, nevertheless he only replies by bringing the fag to his lips for another scolding puff into his burnt lungs, flicking the ash with his index finger.

“Yes Liam, I’m fine. Just got a lot of work to do,” he sighs and it’s not a lie, it’s probably the most truthful thing he could say in this situation, if it could even be called that, it’s more a cloud of confusion fuzzing over his brain but beneath that cloud is sunshine but for some reason he’s hesitant for it to shine through.

Liam resigns to the living room, he wasn’t hurt by the hysterical laughter, he’s used to Zayn’s funny mood swings and knows that the boy would be back to his usual self in a couple of days, it normally happens when he’s stuck for inspiration or his work displeases him.

That’s one of the things about Zayn, it could be called a flaw in his already imperfect personality, he has an immense expectation of his own knowledge, when something’s wrong, even the littlest swipe of a pencil or misjudged notation, and he tumbles upon himself like a tonne of bricks.

He’s his own biggest critic, even with simple conversations with guests, he scrutinizes their facial expression after he finishes his introduction crossing his fingers in hopes he’s made a good impression, slightly contentious about his clothes and hair and personality.

Everything matters, including how he comes across to an unknown European boy, how he expresses himself in that mother tongue French, and the gargle of your throat to perfect the R’s, everything’s got to be seamless.

=

“Oyay Arryhay, omecay outway otay ethay afecay ithway emay odaytay”

Harry rolls his eyes, licking the back of the spoon to get the rest of the creamy lemon yogurt into his mouth, before he flips his head round to face Liam who’s stood by the kitchen door in an old blue sweater and baggy chinos, holding Zayn’s apple mac and furrowing his eyebrows as he reads.

“Liam, I thought I told you that the whole pig latin thing was only a phase. Me and Lou were only joking.” Ignoring the way Liam looks almost sad because at least he made an effort, plus it’s going to be funny speaking it in front of Zayn, who refuses to spend time learning a language only really useful when messing about with friends.

“Fine!” Liam huffs, but he smiles anyway, placing the laptop on the counter before swinging his arms round Harry’s shoulder and stealing a spoonful of his yogurt, trying not to scrunch it face at the tangy taste he’s not so fond of.

“Nice isn’t it?” he says with a smirk, because he knows it’s a pretty acquired taste especially since it’s from some speciality French market he found the other day, Liam splutters out an agreement trying not to choke up the disgusting flavour.

_Told you so, it’s your fault you stole my yoghurt. You idiot._

_=_

“What the hell is this? I thought you were taking me to a café with hot French waitresses,” Louis whines, as Zayn drags him into the _Musée d'Orsay_ by his denim collar, ignoring his childish cries and scrambling.

By the end of the day, with Zayn having the descriptions of his favourite impressionists, he’s pretty happy with the work he’s got done whilst Louis scowling at the artwork like a clouted child, his lips pouted out and his arms crossed.

He’s begged, he’s pleaded and he’s flung himself on the floor but Zayn’s not given up, Louis asked to be treated like an artist, he asked if he could be Zayn for a day to try to claw through that disordered mind of his and this is what it’s like.

It may not be particularly exciting for an outsider, but Zayn’s brain is working like clockwork, studying the traditional modern art and replacing the colours with those azure blues, that yellow hue gold and dark chocolate brown.

Like metal clogs slipping and sliding, his throat clogging with a gasp as he looks upon a particular oil painting, he ignores the tongue clicking and foot tapping of Louis in the background, and instead focuses all his attention on the masterpiece in front of him.

 _Cherubs by Raphael_ and it just hit him, and he knows, he fucking knows. This is Niall, the angels have rounded- childish features, curious and wandering eyes and wispy blond and brown hair, little angel wings spouting from their backs screaming innocence as they gaze into the sky.

Dizzy with the fact that it’s so simple, everything fits and he’s excited. He wants the paint crusted fingernails, the damp paint brushes, the strong pungent scent, the gush of air that rushes through his lungs when he’s dappled the brush and the tired brown eyed gaze he receives when he looks into the mirror after a struggle to complete his own personal tour de force.

=

Zayn rushes home with a hysterical laugh, slipping through the apartment lithely and hastening past a shouting Harry, diving beneath his pillow to grab those precious close ups of Niall’s perfect doe eyes and comparing his black and white sketches of the cherubs, his smile only getting wider.

It’s as if his whole artistically mental existence has been leading up to moment where he can find his muse, to perfect their appearance through his art and have them up in his heart and up in his mind.


End file.
